All This Time
by Splinker
Summary: Brian sends Justin the scarf in the mail. THE scarf. AU after 507.


**I._ I am still living with your ghost..._**

_I stroke the silky baby hairs of his lower back, let my hands rest against the curve of his ass. He stirs gently against me, his head moving closer to mine. We fucked earlier, so full of emotion, the most we've had toward each other in a while. I slid into him and he held me there, asked me not to move. I stilled inside him and he kissed me, tongue gently lapping at my mouth. Hiss kiss is different, has been for a while now. It's less frantic and fevered, more searching, searching for something that's not there. Things are changing between us and I can feel it. He wants more, a commitment, a future, but if I give him that, then he'll have all of me, and I just won't – can't – let myself do that. He stays, but I know that it won't be for long. He won't stay here if he feels unwanted, but I can't bring myself to stop him. He deserves to get everything that he wants, so I won't stop him when he leaves. Until then, though, he stays. With me, in this bed, in my life, in this town. We both know that it won't be long, which is why I'm not asleep. _

_I want to soak this in, the feel of him against me when we're not fucking, when he's just breathing deeply in his sleep and the puffs of breath hit my throat. The breath on my throat is hot, but it brings me to chills with the thought that I might not have this luxury tomorrow. I want to revel in this now, because I don't know when I'll get to do this again. I close my eyes and let my fingertips trail over the silky hairs of the small of his back, the curve where ass meets thigh. My breathing deepens and I drift to sleep with thoughts of him running through my head, suitcases in hand, shutting the loft door, the metal rattling loudly against its track. _

My eyes snap open and my head is pounding furiously. I look at the clock, 4: 35. It's too fucking early in the morning for this shit. I don't understand why I keep having these fucking dreams. At least once a week for two months now I've had them. Never the same one, but always concerning the same thing: Justin. Justin leaving. Justin walking out on the _Rage_ party. Justin flitting around the diner, ass looking oh, so fuckable in those cargo pants. Always Justin. The most vivid had been the one about the bashing. I hadn't had that one in almost two years, not since he came back after the fiddler. That night, though, I'd woken up in a cold sweat, fear-gripped that he was getting hurt all over again. It had been so life-like, the sounds and colors and images so detailed, so realistic, that I couldn't separate it from real life.

These thoughts are doing nothing to help me forget about him, so I tell myself to stop, reach for a cigarette and light it. I make my way to the kitchen and grab a beer. The liquid is cold and soothing on my throat, but does nothing to quell my throbbing headache. I can physically feel the blood in my head throbbing and it fucking hurts. I haven't had one this bad in a long time. That dream, the one about the bashing, always causes me to wake with a headache, but I didn't have that dream tonight. I dreamed of something else tonight, something just as bad. It had happened just like the dream, too. He took his bags and just walked right out, no look back. I should've stopped him. It would've been so easy, but, then again, a lot of things with him would've been so easy if only I weren't the selfish bastard that I am.

I sit at the bar, stub my cigarette out and rest my head in my hands. The images from that dream keep flashing in my mind. Not the one from tonight, but the one from the bashing. The dream is just like I remember that night. The white ends of the scarf floating wildly in the air as Justin spins around at the sound of his name only to be met with wood. That fucking scarf. I'd worn it after the bashing like a soldier wears his badges, with that I wouldn't be asked about it, yet I couldn't bring myself to not wear it. I remember him taking it off that night so long ago under the blue lights, letting the silk slide through his hands down to the floor, and I forgot about it after that because he was there and ready and so vulnerable in my arms. He slept quietly after that and I'd gotten up to retrieve it, hid it in the back of a drawer somewhere he'd never look. I don't know why I did it, but something in me just wasn't able to let it go completely. I guess it's still a part of me, that guilt I feel for what happened to him. He told me that it wasn't my fault, that I was a hero, but I can't let myself believe that.

I still have it. It sits in the back of that drawer collecting dust because I haven't taken it out, haven't even looked at it since that night. Thinking about it now, though, something in me wants to. To touch it, see and feel the blood that mars its beauty, making it ugly with its history of violence. I turn the chair I'm sitting in around to face the bedroom, look past the bed in favor of the dresser. It's in the third from the top, underneath some old jeans of mine and a shirt of his that he left that I can't bring myself to return to him. It's funny that I feel as if I need physical pieces of evidence to remember him by, when, in reality, everything about my life now has his name written all over it. Nothing about me is the same as it was before I knew him. He's changed me in ways that I didn't notice until it'd already happened; I had already become this person I am today. There's no way I could forget that.

I stare at the drawer. It's beckoning me, calling my name in a whisper that sounds like him. I try to ignore it, but it's no use. I always was powerless to his charms.

_**II. All the roads that lead to you were winding...**_

You can't find your letter opener so you use the sharp edge of a paint mixer to open the envelope. This one in specific had caught your interest because it was in a manila envelope, obviously containing something more important than just a regular letter. Once it's sufficiently open, you reach your hand inside only to come in contact with smooth, silky fabric. You dump the contents out on the counter, and you realize what this is.

You recognize it instantly.

The majority of it is still white. Only certain parts of it are marred by your blood. The fabric still feels as smooth to you as it did that night. Not the night that he wore it for you. No. You don't remember that night. But the night that he'd had it on and you'd removed it from his shoulders, freeing him of the burden he'd been carrying since that night. You remember it perfectly. The material had slid through your hand as you'd pulled it from his neck and set it on the step near the end of the bed. You hadn't really given it that good of a look then. It was dark in the loft and Brian had looked so scared and unsure of himself. No, the details of that scarf left your brain pretty fucking quickly, as a matter of fact. Whatever was occurring between you and Brian in that moment was more important to you than how your blood looked on that scarf. You weren't even really sure you wanted to see it.

You've never seen it the way it's supposed to look, and that bothers you. Makes you sad and a little angry as you stare at it on your counter. The only memory of that night you have is turning around to see pale oak, the ends of the scarf flying up from around your neck. You don't remember Brian, or the parking garage, or even Chris's face. All that sticks in your mind when you think of that night is the bat that flew toward your head when you'd turned around, for reasons that you know now were because Brian had called your name, tried to warn you.

Sometimes you like to imagine the way his voice had sounded. You know that it's terrible and that this part of you should never be shown to anyone, but you do. You wonder if you could hear the fear in his voice when he shouted your name. If it sounded any different from all the times he'd said it in the dark of the loft while the two of you were fucking. You like to think that it did. You think that his voice was permeated by a higher pitch than he would normally have. He didn't care about anything else in that moment but you. You don't think that he'd ever felt that way before, and you like that feeling. And you know that it's terrible, which is why you'll never tell anyone the real reasons as to why you want to remember your prom.

But, looking at it now on your counter, so harmless in its essence, you feel anger. And sadness. You're angry that this is affecting you the way it is. You thought you'd put all that shit behind you during your Pink Posse days. You're sad that you've never seen it the way it's supposed to look, smoothed around Brian's neck and shoulders in place of a tie, beautiful against his dark suit. And you're sad that you can imagine it like this, yet you've never seen it this way.

You picture him. In his loft, looking at this thing, reliving that nightmare over and over again. You know that's what he did, too. Self-destruction has always been his favorite form of pain management. You don't have to imagine why he's kept it. He'll never get rid of the guilt he feels over what happened to you, but that's not all of it. He wants to remember. As much as it haunted him, he wants to remember how it felt, how he felt, to have you in his arms one second, and gone the next, lifeless on the concrete. He doesn't want to forget that, because he knows that you won't always be there, with him, like now. He must've been preparing for this, you leaving, for some time. Thinking back on it, those last few months, he was just waiting for the day you said you were done. Which you guess is why he's sent it to you now. He knows that it's final this time. You're done for good and he realizes that, so he thought he'd do one last thing, make his final attempt at getting you to come back.

Thinking about this now, you realize that after all this time, you still haven't cracked the code that he keeps on his heart. So many things about him remain a mystery to you. When you were seventeen and crazy in love you thought that he would one day give you that code, slip it to you in a kiss or a caress late one night and then you two would be together forever, Brian and Justin sitting in a tree. Now, though, you've come to realize that you're never going to know this man in all the ways that you want, in all the ways that your teenage mind had hoped for. This scarf is a testament to that fact. He kept it and never told you. And maybe it was to remind him of that one almost perfect night and maybe he didn't tell you because he wanted to protect you, but _fuck that_ because you're a goddamned adult and you don't need his protecting. Not anymore. You're always going to want it, always going to crave it, but you don't need it anymore. Just like him. You've accepted this fact now. He'll always carry around a piece of you with him because you can't bring yourself to take it back.

God, he infuriates you so much sometimes. You wish he'd just say what he's thinking and feeling instead of hiding everything. You don't know what kind of pain management this is, but he certainly wasn't thinking of you when he sent this. You picture him, high as a fucking kite. Or was he sober? That would just make it that much more worse. So, he's high, running this scarf through his hands, thinking about you and how you're gone and not coming back this time. He certainly does like to torture himself. So, he decides that he needs to make one final gesture to show you that he wants you. That always was his way.

_**III. The feeling comes to life when I see your ghost...**_

I sit on the barstool at the counter and wait for him to emerge from his shower. I let myself in using the key that I never gave back, that he never bothered to ask for. Any normal day, my mind would be flitting back to memories of him in the shower, naked, pressed against me, inside me, but I didn't come here for that. I came here to ask him what the fuck he was thinking.

I deserve some sort of explanation. He could've just as easily kept it hidden away in some drawer where he'd never see it. If he'd kept it all this time, he could've at least had the decency to tell me long ago. Or not at all, which would just be true Brian Kinney fashion. I shouldn't have found out this way. Not when he's living eight blocks away and we're not even apart of each other's lives anymore.

I hear the sharp click of the faucet in the shower followed by a dwindling pitter-patter of water. Hoping that he has a towel or some sort of clothes on, I turn my gaze toward the bedroom. If he's naked, that will just lessen my resolve, stir things in me that I've been trying for months to forget.

He enters the bedroom area, towel tied loosely around his waist, water glistening on his chest and shoulders, and I have to will myself not to think of a time where he would fuck me now, bend me over the sofa and mold his body to mine, bury his cock deep inside me. I have to shake my head to get rid of the thought. He stops right at the edge of the stairs when he sees me. Stands there for a moment, staring at me. He exhales a deep breath then and speaks.

"Back so soon? What," he smirks and it makes me want to strangle him, "couldn't live without me?"

I make sure my voice has an air of confidence about it. "The exact opposite, actually. I was getting along fabulously until --"

"Until you realized that you missed me too much and decided to come back?" His voice is teasing but the air around us is too tense for that.

"Brian, you know exactly why I'm here," I get right to the point, firm and direct, something I learned from him. His eyebrows raise quizzically and the utter confusion shows on his face. "Well, it's obviously not to fuck, and other than that, I can't imagine why you'd be here. So, why don't you enlighten me, Sunshine," he gestures with his arms wide apart, like he really doesn't know why I'm here.

"The scarf, Brian. I fucking got it in the mail today." A look of sudden understanding passes across his face. He tenses and nods a little, then walks over to the counter to face me. He's standing across from me, naked from the waist up, chest completely open to me. There's some sort of hidden symbolism here that I fail to recognize.

"Justin, I --"

"No, Brian. You don't get to explain, not yet. First, you have to listen to what I have to say."

He takes a seat, lights a cigarette. "Okay." That's all he says, _okay. _Doesn't put up a fight, doesn't attempt to stop me from talking. He doesn't do anything, and this changes things for me. Something about the way he agrees so easily is odd. He's never like that, never been like that the entire time I've known him, and it makes me think that he's actually going to listen to what I have to say.

"Did you really think that I wanted that? That I'd want to see that scarf and relive that pain? Oh, wait, that's right. I can't relive it because I can't fucking remember it." I know that my voice is escalating but I don't care. I'm looking right at him and he's just taking puffs off his cigarette, saying nothing. "What the fuck was I supposed to do with it, Brian? Wear it around my neck the way you did wh--"

A loud sigh escapes his lips and he says, "If all you're going to do is fucking yell about it, could you get to the point already because I'm really not in the mood for it today." He says it so calmly, face completely serious.

"Fine, Brian." I state it calmly, try to get myself to relax, calm down. But not too much, because that could end up with me naked in Brian's bed, and nothing good would come of that. "Were you trying to tell me something? Was it just one of your weird ways of sending me a message without really saying anything?"

He stubs his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray and then looks right at me. His eyes are dark, and I can tell that he's being genuine, and that's not something I'm used to from Brian. "I gave it to you because I thought you would want it..." He takes a long pause, looks at his hands resting on the counter between us, then up at me, "Thought seeing it might help trigger some memories of that night." He says this with utter sincerity, no hint of arrogance or annoyance in his voice, and I don't know how to deal with this Brian. He's never been so open to communication the entire time I've known him, and it's unsettling. It's at this point that I notice that he's staring directly into my eyes, waiting for me to answer the unasked question. It makes me want to jump across this counter and hug him, pull him into an embrace and just stay like that for a long time. I know he feels guilty that he can remember and I can't. I know he'd change it if he could.

"I still don't remember anything, Brian." His face falls a bit, and it makes me want to take his hand in mine. How he turned into the one who needs comfort in this scenario is beyond me, but dammit if I don't want to give it to him.

I stand up, thinking that any kind of separation between us is good right now. He looks at me with his eyebrows raised. That used to mean _I want to fuck you_, but with everyone else it just means that he's waiting for them to speak. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I'm now an everyone else. I'll never really be an everyone else to him, and he'll never be that to me, but right now, here, I have to be, because that's the only way I'll be able to make it through this.

"Why can't you ever just let me go? Why do you always have to do something that reminds me of exactly what I'm missing? I know it's your way of going after me, of trying to get me to stay or come back or whatever, but why can't you ever just say those things, Brian? You always have to make it into this huge deal, but you never say any of those things."

"You know who I am. You've always known. And you know that's not me."

"Yeah, I know that, Brian. But if you're capable of doing all those things after I'm gone to try and get me back then I know there's some part of you that wants to tell me that you miss me, that you want me to come back."

His face changes, then, and we both know that I've hit the nail on the head, and he never expected that. But he pretends that I don't know his secret.

"No, Sunshine, your interpreting things the wrong way. Because you're always the one who leaves, always the one to say goodbye, you're already gone by the time I get to. What you think is me telling you without words that I want you and need you and love you is really just me letting you go. And that's how I do it. That's how I've always done it."

His words hit me and all I can do is look at him because he's right. I've been thinking all along that he was never able to fully let go. A backwards glance in a bathroom that cut right through me. _I hope you get what you want. _

Something inside me snaps, then, because I guess it's me who's never been able to let go. So, I decide that it's finally time.

"Fine." My words cause him to look up. He's been staring at the ashtray on the counter for the last few moments that I've just been standing here saying nothing. "I'm done, for good. We already know that you and I don't want the same things, and we both know that it's never going to work between us. So, since you've already let go, I'm going to do so right now." He stands up and walks closer to me, and something in his eyes tells me that he wants me to fight for us, to give it one last chance, but I don't. I won't.

"I can't carry this piece of you around with me, anymore, Brian." I walk closer to him and place my hand on his cheek and he leans into it. I let myself feel the warmth beneath my palm before I begin to speak again. "I have to let it go because it hurts too much to always have it there with me." I can feel my resolve begin to weaken at my words and the look on his face that's saying _stay, stay, stay, _but I have to keep going. "So, I'm giving it back to you, Brian. One last time."

I pull my hand away from him and begin to turn around, but he catches my wrist before I get two steps away.

"Stay."

This is the most he's ever done, the most he'll ever do. I open my mouth to ask why, but before I can say anything he moves his hand from my wrist to my palm, lacing our fingers together. He's making it harder for the both of us and I wish he would just stop –

"I love you."

I can't even wrap my brain around the fact that he just told me that he loves me. I never really thought he'd say it. He's said it plenty of times, in a myriad of ways, but I honestly never thought that he'd voice those three words to me aloud. But that's not enough. I wish that were enough. I wish I could just let myself fall into him again, it'd be so easy, but I can't. He begins to pull me close to him, but I put a hand to his chest to stop him.

"Brian, you can't just say that and make everything all right." His hand is around my waist now, and it's taking everything in me to not kiss him and forget about everything that's wrong between us.

"Listen to me, Justin. Are you listening?" His eyes search mine and I nod my head. I'm trying to tell myself to not give into to his words because they sound really fucking good and I wish that I could but I can't because –

"I don't want it to be like it was, okay? We're not getting married and we're not having kids, but I'm in this for real," he leans down then and cups my face between his hands, "because I want you. I want _you_. I love you."

"Brian, this all sounds really great, but what happens when you start getting bored with just me? When you want something more?"

"Justin, I fucking _love_ you, okay? I may have tried to let you go and forget about you, but it never fucking worked. The urge to fuck other people is always going to be there, but it's never as good with anyone else as it could be with you." He looks so vulnerable right now, and I realize that that's the most open he's ever been about anything with me, and I can't believe that he really said all that. And now he's pulling me to him and kissing me. I'm not stopping him this time.

_**IV. I'm never as good as when you're there...**_

Justin's POV

Brian's hands are tangled in my hair and his tongue is parting my teeth, trying to get into my mouth. I let him.

We've been standing here like this, kissing, for I don't know how long. Just his tongue rubbing slowly against mine and his hands in my hair and, _oh god_, it feels so good. I haven't kissed him in so long and just that feels like more than enough right now.

His hands move from my hair to cup my face and I have to break away for a moment because the intensity of it is something that I'm not used to. It doesn't feel the same as it did. We've been apart for two months, but I know that's not the reason.

The reason is that we've finally sorted through our shit and discussed how we feel. Talked for real, for maybe the first time in our entire relationship, about what each of us wants and what we don't want.

I look him in the eyes; the hazel of his irises are dark with lust and sex and love. He loves me, and I never thought he'd actually say it, but he did. I always used to think that that would be enough, that love would conquer all, but it didn't. Him saying it was just a step in the right direction. Everything after is what got us here. And now all I want is to be here, with him, doing exactly this.

Brian's POV

I missed this. He's looking at me so intently that I know exactly what he's thinking. I can read it in his his eyes and in the way his heart has started beating faster and his hands have come to rest on my shoulders. He wants to say it, and I don't stop him.

His lips part and our faces are so close together that I can feel his breath on my face as the words slip from his lips. "I love you, Brian. God, I love you so fucking much." He brings his head back to mine to kiss me again. It starts out slow with his tongue lightly grazing mine, but it escalates quickly into hot, open-mouthed kisses with his tongue frantically exploring my mouth. We haven't fucked in two months, but I don't plan on rushing through this.

Despite our hurried kisses, I take my time removing his clothes. His eager tongue is massaging mine and and my hands are unbuttoning each button on his jeans as slowly as I can. He moans a protest in the back of his throat when I let my fingers graze over his dick upon removing his pants, but I'm not doing this to torture him. I want to savor this. Savor this moment because it means something and because I know that I haven't taken the time to do it in the past. To commit to memory the way he looks when he's sprawled out on the bed, naked, waiting for me to claim him once again – and for fucking all – as my own. My own. I never really thought that I'd be able to say that with such ease, but it felt – feels – fucking good. My own. That has a nice ring to it.

Justin's POV

We're on the bed now, both of our clothes removed, just kissing. His full weight is resting against me and it's heavy, but in a really, really good way. Every part of his body is against mine and this is so much more than I've ever felt for him. The emotional intensity of our earlier conversation has made this – us, our relationship – that much stronger.

My dick is straining uncomfortably between us and it's so hard that I'm not sure how much more of this I can handle. I start to rock against him, causing our cocks to rub together. He breaks away from my mouth to tell me that if I keep doing that this will be over before it's even started. But I don't care because I just need something, anything, from him right now. But, upon breaking away from our kiss and seeing the look on my face, the utter desperation with which I'm pleading for him to fuck me, he acquiesces.

"Okay," he says.

He reaches to the left to grab a condom from the nightstand and and puts it on before opening the lube and preparing

me. His finger is cold but welcome in my ass. He doesn't waste time with getting me worked up because we both know that I don't need that. He slides inside me with an ease that only fucking the same ass for five years can create, enters me so slowly that it feels as if he's moving one inch at a time. My back arches off the bed as I wrap my legs around him and he buries himself to the hilt. The initial burn from being penetrated for the first time in months is gone and I've adjusted to the feel of him inside me, but we just stay like that for five, maybe ten, minutes. Just him inside me, unmoving, and his heart beating against mine and this intense connection between us that we both know will never go away. We just kiss, our tongues sliding against each other and hands roaming the other's body until neither of us can stand it anymore. I can feel his heartbeat in his dick and it's making me move my hips, attempting to create some friction. I break away to tell him that I want him – need him – to start moving.

"Brian, I need--"

He cuts me off with a quick kiss, slips me a little tongue, and concedes.

"I know."

And with that, he begins to move.

Brian's POV

I missed this. Missed how fucking dark blue his eyes get when he's turned on, the way his back arches off the bed when I slide into him, just everything about him. When we're apart I let myself forget how he fits so seamlessly against me. We blend into one being in times like this, when we're both focused on making this last as long as we can last. Slow deep thrusts with me pushing all the way inside him one inch at a time. So. Fucking. Slowly. It feels so good and I know that this is what he wants by the way his kiss has changed from rushed and frantic to slow and long, his tongue lapping softly at mine. He wants it slow, wants to physically feel that what we now have isn't the same as what we did have; it's fucking better. I give him exactly what he wants.

I fuck him with a slow, set rhythm that matches the way we're kissing. Long, drawn out strokes that carry the intensity that rests between us, that's always rested between us. I can tell he's trying to hold off on his orgasm as long as he can because his lips are pressed into his mouth and his his hands are clenched so tightly around mine, but his breathing is becoming increasingly erratic and I know that he's close. His legs tighten around my waist and I feel him tense beneath me. He locks his arms around my shoulders and uses his feet on the small of my back to push me in to the hilt. My thrusts are rough, but he's pushing up against me for more and when he moans my name and arches his back I know I'm done for. He comes, his spasming ass bringing me right along with him. He's so beautiful with his hair mussed and face flushed and mouth open and eyes that look directly into mine so that he can watch me watch him come. It's the hottest and most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen.

He is the hottest and most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen.

Justin's POV

We lay spent and curled around each other for a long time, just soaking in the feel of fucking for the first time in so long. Feels good. I know that we could fall asleep like this. It's late enough and I'm feeling incredibly comfortable here in his – our – bed. The darkness behind my eyelids is enticing and his body is warm around me and his breathing is soft on my neck and ear, creating a lull that's hard to resist. My eyelids close and the last thing I think before drifting off is how everything we've been through in the past five years was only to lead us here. Without it, we might never have gotten to this point, to this understanding that this is what we both want. I can say now with complete certainty that I'm it for him; I'm all he wants. There's still parts of him that I've yet to know, but I've got the biggest and most important part. I've got the rest of my life to find out the rest.

Brian's POV

After our breathing evens out, I pull out of him and roll onto my back next to him, pull him close so that he's resting against me.

We've been together for almost five years. We've fucked countless times, in a myriad of positions and locations. No matter where we are or what position we're in, it's aways great. But that was the most intense fuck we've ever had. Declaring your love for the person that you fuck can do that, I guess. The connection between us just seems to keep getting stronger. I had deluded myself into thinking for so long that all we had was the sex, but I know now that that's not true. The sex would've gotten old by now if there wasn't something else between us, something that is so much more than I ever thought I could feel for one person. I used to believe that fucking the same ass everyday would get boring faster than I can get Justin hard, which is pretty fucking fast, but I know now that I was wrong. Because we've fucked so many times and – I'm alright with admitting – I love him, it makes it so much better. Five years ago, seeing Justin standing under that lamppost in _flannel_, I never would have thought that he would end up to the best fuck that I have ever had or will ever have. I guess I have my dick to thank for guiding me to him.

"Santa Monica" lyrics by Everclear; "Wonderwall" lyrics by Noel Gallagher; "All My Life" lyrics by Foo Fighters


End file.
